“You call that luck?” Creed opened his saddlebags, and shoved the bottle in. “There better be more than a measly few. I have the itch.”
Saber looked away. That was what Creed called it when the need to kill came over him. “The itch.” Like it was a rash, and blood the only salve.
Twitch was set to light the kerosene. “Seems an awful waste to me, burnin’ all the tarantula juice we haven’t drunk yet.”
No one else grumbled. They knew better. Saber climbed on his chestnut, saying, “Everyone will reckon it was an Injun raid. They killed the owner and burned the place down.”
“You always were clever,” Twitch tittered.
“More clever than most. It’s why I ain’t never been caught, and why I never will be,” Saber boasted. He patted his hogleg. “Lead has its uses, but savvy is what keeps us from havin’ our necks stretched, or rottin’ behind bars.”
Flames flared to vivid red and orange. Snickering, Twitch stepped back as they licked at the porch and climbed to the overhang. “Fire is almost as pretty as a naked dove.”
“Almost,” Saber said. As a boy, he had delighted in setting toads and lizards and frogs ablaze, after cutting their legs off so they could not get away. A few years ago, for the thrill, he had burned a drummer alive. To this day, he fondly recalled the shrieks and screams.
“Fire does nothin’ for me,” Creed said.
Some of the others, though, were as fascinated as Saber and Twitch. The flames reached the roof and spread rapidly, spawning thick columns of smoke that spiraled skyward.
“What if they see it down in the valley?” one of the men asked.
“So?” Saber rejoined. “They have too much on their minds. No one will come.”
The heat was terrific. Saber reined a safe distance from the crackling inferno, as much for his skittish mount as for himself. Inside, bottles were bursting. Something went up with a loud whump. It galvanized Saber into asking, “Was that keg of black powder still in there?” Blank expressions greeted his query. With an oath, he hauled on the reins, bellowing, “Ride like hell, you jackasses!”
Saber was almost to the trees when the saloon exploded. A man-made volcano of flame and wood spewed fiery pieces and bits in a trillion trajectories. The slowest of the gang, a burly hardcase named Caleb, howled when burning bits seared his neck and cheek. Fritz’s mare pranced in fright.
Cackling merrily, Saber came to a stop. He half hoped the mare would throw Fritz, but no such luck. Everyone reached the woods, singed but alive. “We should burn more places down. It beats playin’ poker all hollow.”
“If you say so,” Creed said.
“I say so.” Saber grew suspicious. This made twice in the past few minutes that the black man had stepped on his toes. Had it finally come? Was Creed about to make a bid to become the new leader?
“I like playin’ poker when I win,” Twitch remarked.
“Who doesn’t?” Saber sometimes wondered if they truly were kin. No relative of his could be so dumb. He tore his gaze from the conflagration, and used his spurs.
That high up, they were afforded a spectacular vista. Lower slopes, dappled with color, merged into the foothills, which in turn merged into the green of the valley floor. Saber was not much for admiring scenery, but he had to admit New Mexico Territory could hold its own with the likes of Colorado and Utah. He was trying to recollect where he had come across acre after acre of the most amazing rock formations, when he acquired a shadow. Instantly he lowered his right hand to his revolver. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” Creed said, so quietly that Saber barely heard him.
“About what?” Saber asked, and tensed to draw. This is it. Creed was faster, but Saber would get off a shot or two and make each count.
“Cows.”
Saber let some of the tension drain out of him. “Since when are you interested in the critters?”
“Since you told us that we could sell the two herds for hundreds of thousands of dollars split eight ways.”
“Seven ways. I shot Hank, remember?”
“Why so many?”
“I don’t follow you,” Saber said, although he understood perfectly.
“Split only two or three ways, it would be more money for those of us who live to split it.”
“You, me, and Twitch, you mean?” Saber studied the black with renewed interest. “What about Fritz, Caleb, Lutt, and Harvey? We need them to help drive the herd to market.” As it was, even with Hijino and Dunn helping, they might need a few more men.
“We won’t need them after.”
It always fascinated Saber how changeable people were. “True. But Fritz and Lutt have ridden with me for a coon’s age. It wouldn’t hardly be right.”
“Something for you to think about,” Creed said. “You don’t need to make up your mind right away.”
Saber had more than that to ponder over the next couple of hours. Until the Circle T and the DP killed each other off, he and his men must stay clear of them. He counted on the Pierce family getting the worst of it—helped along by Hijino—if only because of their fewer numbers. Dunn would do what he could at the Circle T, and by now should have taken care of Tovey’s wife. That was bound to incense the Circle T’s punchers into a feverish frenzy. They would finish off the last of the Pierce outfit, losing some of their own in the fight. That was when he and his men would swoop down and wipe out the survivors, leaving him in control of both ranches and a fortune in prime beef.
The sun was well on its westward arc. They came to a sparsely timbered ridge. Below were the foothills, brown footstools to the ramparts they were descending. Saber kneed his animal lower, and once again acquired a shadow.
“Have you thought about it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“As I said, Fritz and Lutt have been with me almost as long as Twitch. I’d need a damn good reason.”
“All that money isn’t reason enough?”
Saber chuckled and winked. “It damn sure is.” He started to laugh, but abruptly fell silent at the crack of a shot from lower down, from about the spot where he was supposed to meet Lafe Dunn.
The parlor was dark. The curtains had been drawn, but that was not enough. Kent also hung a blanket over the window. Another blanket had been spread over the body on the settee, but now lay on the floor where he had thrown it.
Kent was on his knees, his hands on Nance’s arm, staring at the ruin that had once been, to him, the loveliest face in all existence. Now it was destroyed. A horrible, grotesque travesty. A pulped, distorted image of the woman he had adored.
She’s gone. Kent could not bring himself to accept the truth. It was why he had spent every waking moment, since the punchers brought her body to the house, here in the parlor. He could not bring himself to leave her.
Long since, Kent had run out of tears. He had cried and cried until he had cried himself dry. He doubted he would ever cry again. No loss could match this. No loss could rip his heart and soul to shreds as this loss had done.
Clayburn had been in an hour ago. Again. To suggest, ever so kindly, that they bury her. Kent knew Clayburn was right, that it was unnatural of him to keep her there, that the men were whispering, but Kent refused. “Not yet. I’m not quite ready.”
They understood. They had seen the depth of his love for her. They had witnessed the breadth of his devotion. They would not begrudge him until the body became rank, and he would not let it go that far.
“I miss you so much.” Kent stroked the arm, once so warm and soft and vital, now cold and unyielding. He took her hand in his, and squeezed. Once, those slender fingers would have squeezed back. Now they were lifeless sticks.